


Wouldn't it be nice?

by circa (stealthturtle)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 trope, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Porn with Feelings, a bit of assumed relationship, alpha!Derek, derek's pack is alive try to stop me, i cant help that im a sucker for feels, tease!stiles, true alpha!scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stealthturtle/pseuds/circa
Summary: The five times Stiles ends up spending the night at Derek's, and the one time Derek starts wanting him to stay forever.





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CordialDimple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CordialDimple/gifts).



> For Radu, whom I adore to the fullest moon and back. 
> 
> To start off, this fic has already been finished in the works, I just decided to split it into 6 chapters. Updates will be spread throughout a week or two!
> 
> Also, this was set around the time of their senior year with some - obviously enough - major canon divergence. Everyone's alive and I hadn't written in any characters from Season 3B, sorry folks! 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the sterek xx

The first time it happened, Stiles was a bit of a literal bloody mess except it wasn't his blood on him but instead, Derek's.

It was another attack from a colony of gremlins who had been lurking around the preserve terrorising animals and the more peaceful fae residing there, and Derek had had enough of their antics after literally being visited by water nymphs at his loft twice via the bathroom faucet, warbling at him indignantly about gremlins upsetting their homes. So he does the whole forest a favour and valiantly sets off at nighttime to ward them off.

Gremlins were essentially weak as individuals, the only thing severe about them is the horrid form they took that was a sight for sore eyes, but as an entire colony they could be pretty (and embarrassingly enough for their victims) lethal. Not exactly lethal enough to take down an Alpha wolf of course, but what do you know, fifteen minutes in the confrontation and Derek's already been bitten and re-bitten by the god-awful creatures.

The skirmish barely made it to thirty minutes before he's succeeded in driving them away the county and made an odd show of drilling themselves into the ground as a means of escape. They could drill themselves all the way to China, for all he cared. That's one loss in the supernatural biodiversity in Beacon Hills the territory could do without, especially when their bites seem to be poisonous enough to mildly slow Derek's healing down.

"Fuck," he groans, frowning at the grotesque, uneven goblin teeth marks - which started to look strangely green in the moonlight - that marred his forearm. God, why does it always have to be his forearm?

He gets back in the Camaro with an uncomfortably smarting right arm and drives home with his left. It feels strangely heavy and there is a mute feeling of buzzing under his skin; in fact, it seems like the world was a bit duller than when he last noticed, and it isn't just because of the pale light the moon cast over the town.

He couldn't quite hear the squirrels pattering about the tree tops or the rustling in the surrounding overgrowth, and even the usual smell of ozone commonly correlated with magic that surrounded Beacon Hills wasn't easy to pick up on as he drove by back to civilisation with the windows down.

Derek suddenly feels twice as uneasy, especially after seeing blue roses instead of red as he passes by the closed florist's shop. He speeds on his way to the loft, eager to get back to home base to not risk any more supernatural accidents that couldn't be avoided with his newfound pegged down senses. Which was probably why, upon arrival, he had been startled when a noise came from the kitchen --

"Honey, you're home!" The unmistakable sound of Stiles' voice set his hackles to lower, familiar as it is. He was safe here, he could deal with the faulty werewolf senses tomorrow. The only threat to his well-being was the boy in his kitchen, sitting on the breakfast bar scooping spoonfuls of Derek's ice cream for himself.

"What are you doing here? And that's mine," he grumbles.

Stiles smiles a chocolate chipped grin at him and says, "Yeah well so am I, and - _woah_." The boy's eyes widen as he sets down the Mint Bon-Bon solo pint back on the counter, jumping down and taking Derek's injured forearm to him for inspection.

'Woah' was a nice way to react to the horrific sight that is his arm.  The marks look to be painstakingly scabbing over, but there was blood welling in certain patches and it had definitely taken on a sickening shade of green and red, like Christmas except really, really gross.

"Bro, the fuck?" Stiles exclaims almost accusingly. Derek sighs through his nose, "Gremlins, really wasn't pretty." The boy snorts as he drops Derek's hand in favour of stalking over to the cupboard over the sink, where he's long planted emergency human injury treatment kits for well, himself. It's often used on human injuries but Derek doesn't know if antiseptic could in any way help a gremlin bite. Multiple ones at that.

Stiles sets the bag down on the counter and ushers the werewolf to sit, bringing out items Derek all too well knows after usually being the one using them on their token human in the pack. Stiles cleans and dresses his wounds with a practiced ease one can only acquire through medical training or having to do this way too many times.

They're both silent for awhile until Stiles finishes his ministrations and says to him, "Good thing I decided to drop by, huh sourwolf? Your left hand is virtually useless on good days. Stiles saves this one!" The human throws in a triumphant fist pump.

"Why are you here again?" Derek grouses, tired and numb and thinking about how weakly he can smell Stiles and the antiseptic he has on his soiled forearm. His apartment even seems to have been shaved down a layer of colour, but thankfully Stiles looked bright as ever as he returns the first aid kit to its cupboard. Derek never thought he'd ever be this relieved at the sight of plaid.

Stiles goes back to the counter and picks up Derek's ice cream. "The truth? My presence is a blessing to all." The werewolf raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles barks out a short laugh and says, “The extended truth is that the betas asked me to check up on you. You haven't called for a pack meeting in a month, you forget to text back, and they don't want their Alpha to be a hermit again."

Derek feels a pang of guilt, understanding how his way of giving space might have been seen as avoidance. The county has been quiet for awhile and he thought he would give the pack some peace for once, let them get some sleep and catch up on homework.

With college applications around the corner, they were busier than usual and he sees the darker circles and the stronger scent of exhaustion and _tired_ they exude in pack meetings. And so he had decided to tackle on the smallest of supernatural activity without having to call the betas for help if he could handle it on his own.

"I - sorry, I didn't realise -" Derek starts, "That we care about you?" Stiles supplies. He gives Derek an upturn of his mouth as he disposes of the now empty ice cream carton, bringing the last scoop of Mint Bon-Bon to Derek.

"Open up, Alpha," Stiles says cheerfully, levelling the spoon to the man's mouth who was a tad too stunned to refuse. His taste buds seemed to have half-died, which was disappointing in the face of his favourite ice cream flavour not even coming near as sweet as the smile Stiles was wearing. Derek clears his throat as the teen makes his way to the living room couch to lie down.

"Why'd they send you?" He inquires. Stiles' head pops up from over the pillows to answer, "I may have made a duplicate of your key months ago, for y'know, in the case of emergencies and if I needed access. In example, right now."

"This is an emergency?"

"You tell me, Alpha, O my Alpha."

Derek didn't know what to say to that so he takes one look at the faded colour of his once orange couch and confesses, "My senses are being dulled." Stiles looks at him curiously through the back pillows and follows up, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's - the couch is yellow," He tells him. "The couch is yellow and the walls are greying and I cant smell the agua oxigenada even though I should, and I didn't even hear you were here before I was ten feet away from you." Stiles shoots right up from his position (Derek notes he can still pick up a small shift in the human's scent triumphantly) and brings out his phone, dialling someone and putting them on speaker.

_"This is Deaton speaking."_

"Hey Doc, you still open?"

_"Hello Stiles, unfortunately no but to your convenience I can make a house call. Who is it this time?"_

"It's Derek, he's losing his senses. Like, sensory senses, not like sanity or anything. That's still solely my problem, heh."

_"Alright, well can I talk to Derek first?"_

"Sure. You're on speaker, go ahead."

Derek takes the phone from Stiles and bids a greeting to the emissary. He explains in as much detail as he can about the gremlin bite and how it's affected his senses, confusion evident in his voice as he had never been faced with a problem that involved gremlin rabies. Usually they were easy to chase away, small as they were and without any special magical ability other than having really sharp teeth and poisonous saliva.

Deaton tells him it's a curious case, being the Alpha he was he should have healed by now, and then something about being a certain species of gremlins who are a lot more formidable than most and Derek was just unfortunate enough to have been attacked by many all at once. The emissary tells him he has to look into them overnight, he'll see Derek in the morning and cancels the house call.

_"One last thing, this might sound unfavourable but one way to drain the poison out is to let yourself bleed. You won't die from blood loss, but if the venom is as potent as it sounds, you'll bleed profusely until your veins are clean enough to restore your healing and senses."_

"So how do you propose I do that?" Derek asks, eager to get the venom out of his system. Something about losing a blanket of security that came with having all his five senses heightened really didn't sit well with him. Without them, he felt he was less wolf and more of human, suspect to any attacks that might come his way and can't foresee in any way. Although he'd never say that out loud right now especially to Stiles' face. The teen had a lot of opinions on being the alleged 'vulnerable human'.

_"However way you see fit. A simple cut will do, actually, near the bites if possible."_

"Alright, thank you Deaton." He passes the phone back to Stiles who bids the emissary a cheery goodbye, and Derek takes the opportunity of Stiles' distraction to flick out a claw, swiping it on his bicep where the skin isn't wrapped in gauze. Dark red blood trickles out and does not stop, fast as it usually should usually have, and it gets on the carpet.

"Dude, not the shag!" Stiles exclaims, moving to find a cloth to wrap around his arm. True to Deaton's words he does bleed profusely, like it was just collecting against his capillaries waiting to get out. He feels more hazy than anything, and he smells the panic Stiles was exuding at the sight of a lot of werewolf blood getting everywhere.

"You heard Deaton, I'll be fine Stiles," Derek says lightly, although he supposes it was hard to trust his words when it looked like he was getting his life bled out through a cut on his bicep. “I just have to let it bleed out for a bit.” He doesn’t have to smell the displeasure the human was feeling when it was written all over his face.

He does let Stiles lead him to the bathroom where the teen turns on the tap to run water along Derek's arm that’ll slow the clotting a bit, muttering something about the difficulties of cleaning out shag carpets and plaid and denim and _Did you really have to get mauled by miniature demons, Derek?_

There's even more gauze on his right arm when Stiles was finally done with telling him how he could have just asked for back up and then maybe they wouldn't have to pay extra for dry cleaning.

"Except this amount of blood would be entirely suspicious," Stiles says ruefully as he adjusts a butterfly clip on Derek's dressing after an ample amount of blood-letting. "See this is why I only wear my good clothes on special occasions, you never know when it's going to get drenched and stained in all sorts of questionable fluids."

"So is this a special occasion?" Derek humours him. Stiles chuffs and rearranges the medicine kit back to the cupboard.

"A house visit to everyone's second favourite Alpha is always a special occasion."

Derek raises his eyebrows mock-challengingly, "Only second?"

"Yeah-huh, everyone knows Scotty-boy's puppy-dog demeanour has your eyebrows beat any day. But don't worry," Stiles rounds on him as he leaned back on the kitchen sink, grinning. "You're still my personal favourite."

Derek rolls his eyes good-naturedly, shucking his shoes to the side. He was tired and still buzzing underneath his skin. There was still a sense of loss, of something missing, and he'd rather sleep the sensory deprivation away than prolong the inconvenience.

"I'm turning in," he alerts Stiles.

"So am I!" The teen replies, crossing the kitchen to the space of the living room, turning to plop back down on the couch looking for all he was at home.

"Isn't your dad going to wonder where you are?" Derek says questioningly.  

“No," came the succinct reply.

"And why is that?" He probes.

"Because I just texted him I was going to stay with you. Doctor's orders." Stiles throws him a cheeky wink. "Really though, Deaton suggested I help. See, I am so useful. I am the most useful of useful pack members. I should get an award, honestly." Derek doesn’t mention that he heard the lie when he mentioned Deaton’s ‘suggestion’.

Derek looks at his languid form on the couch and raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, no offence but I fail to see how you can be of help now."

Stiles looks at him mock- affronted and gives a stage gasp, saying, "After all I've done for you tonight! Fine, go get attacked by another hoard of gremlins again, see if I help you this time." He then goes to tuck himself further into the couch and Derek knew there was no moving him to go back home where he should've been all along.

The werewolf sighs, moving to get blankets and the smallest pair of night clothes he could find, already groggy as he was after a decidedly long night. Sometimes he wonders when he got used to Stiles, or if he ever did at all. Derek throws both articles at the teen's general direction and calls from the bedroom, "I'm not waking you up tomorrow."

There's sounds of shuffling and dull hits on the pillow from where Stiles sounds to be flailing out of the clothes he came with and into the ones Derek's provided. He turns to the bed before deciding for good measure to stick his head back out from the bedroom door and add, "And don't sneak out, I can't sense these things yet."

"This isn't a one night stand Derek!" Stiles shouts back which tugs a laugh out of him. And maybe this right here, is why he doesn't get too tired of dealing with Stiles' eccentricities just yet.

The clock by the fridge tells him it's 22:56, and he takes one more glance at Stiles' now prone form, already relaxing into slumber. Derek notices the exact colour of the lines in the teen’s night shirt, smells a hint of the combination of him and pack and home.

It's odd to see another person residing with him after a long while, leaving trails of their own scent to twine with his. Not wholly unfamiliar, and not unpleasant either, maybe it was just a Stiles thing, with his tactility and way of inserting himself in everyone's space like he knew he was what was missing all along.

Derek then notes that the colour in the walls of the loft seemed to have filled in a bit, and he can even hear a bit of the city and a lot of the strong, steady heartbeat coming from the living area. He wonders hopefully if the world was being awakened to his senses again, but Derek figures living beings must stand out more because for one solid second, he swears he saw Stiles in the most vivid of colours.


	2. deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek rolls his eyes and growls a little at Stiles warningly. The human looks up at him and says, “What? There was an ‘or’ in your dare. It was sit still or be quiet. I made my choice, now go live with yours, pumpkin.” 
> 
> He supposes he’s made his bed and he’ll lie in it too.

It happens again not so long after the first incident, at a pack night Lydia, Allison, and Erica organised by themselves at his loft, quote, out of the goodness of their own hearts, end quote. But Derek has zero complaints, in fact no one does, not when Jackson wasn’t being an asshole for a whole three hours and Isaac was grinning at the Bond movie they were watching upon Boyd’s rare request of things he’d like for everyone to enjoy. 

Stiles mentions there's a positive correlation between Boyd’s unsurprising choice of movie genres and his aptness for the spy identity, being strong and silent and mysterious and deadly. Lydia chides him for the excessive use of conjunctions in one sentence. There is popcorn projectile thrown that follows at her strawberry-blonde hair where Erica mooches snacks off of to her convenience. 

It's the most they’ve been at peace together without discussing all the ways things could go wrong that week. And Derek doesn't mind one single bit. 

“Y’know what would be fun,” Stiles suddenly pipes up from between Allison and Derek’s sides. “Truth or Dare.” His suggestion was met with a chorus of scoffs and shushes from Isaac and Boyd who were very engrossed in what they were watching. 

“You guys are no fun,” he chuckles, wriggling to settle more comfortably as he puts one leg over Derek’s thigh and looks as if he were seeing if he could push it far enough to clutch the other Alpha’s arm to his chest like a very fleshy, muscle-y pillow.

He looks at Derek hopefully, tilting his head as a form of persuasion. Derek huffs and begrudgingly proffers his right arm to the human who whoops quietly, using the special inside voice they’ve talked about many times (the werewolf-friendly one). 

Not even five minutes into the progression of the film does Stiles whisper, “Hey, Derek.” He receives a grunt in reply but already knew Derek’s attention was shifting to him anyways. “Truth or Dare?” 

The werewolf frowns at the screen and tries to ignore the question, he’s had a lot of practice ignoring the kid’s more frivolous inquiries and rambles, see. 

“Dereek, truth or dare? C’mon Der-bear.”

Doesn't mean he was ever any good at it, though. 

“Truth,” Derek breathes out; he caves, he very nearly always does. Stiles smells of  _ fun  _ and yes somehow, that was possible. The human made it possible. He could almost hear the reply that was sure to come if he told this to the boy, either a  _ My dude, I’ve always known I was something special  _ or a corny  _ Nothing is impossible, even the word itself spells I’m possible!  _

“Do werewolves mate for life?” Derek wonders if he was saving that one for a while. Knowing Stiles, he probably had. 

“Some do, usually born wolves but not every wolf either.” 

“Cool.” 

There's two peaceful beats of silence before - 

“Dude, my turn. Or well, technically your turn. Get with the program,” Stiles nudges him. Derek rolls his eyes and asks him the obligatory question back. The teen chooses Dare, but there isn't anything Derek would have him do other than, “Keep still for five minutes. Or just, be quiet. Just for five whole minutes.”  Someone from the pack somewhere mutters, “Or more.” 

Stiles nods his acquiescence but not before he moves to settle himself on Derek’s chest, draping the Alpha’s arms over his own shoulders and getting  _ very  _ comfortable. He's gotten used to this version of Stiles over the years, the one incredibly tactile enough to superimpose his entire presence upon you because somehow, he knew he wouldn't (and probably couldn't) be denied it. 

And Derek, for all he's now familiar with the press of the teen’s body against his in all the times Stiles has done so to seek comfort, protection, and rest, could never get used to the way his heart would suddenly feel too big for his chest. Maybe Derek should get that checked, it can get really uncomfortable. (If he ignores the tidbit of impossibility of him having arrhythmia, that isn't anyone's business but his.) 

“Look, mom and dad are back together,” Isaac says teasingly from the couch he shared with Boyd and Erica. The pack laughs except Stiles goes to protest,

“Just because we had a serious talk over how he’s been unnecessarily picking on Jackson while training last week doesn't mean we’ve broken up, Isaac.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and growls a little at Stiles warningly. The human looks up at him and says, “What? There was an ‘or’ in your dare. It was sit still  _ or  _ be quiet. I made my choice, now go live with yours, pumpkin.” 

He supposes he’s made his bed and he’ll lie in it too. Derek then smells  _ contentment  _ from everywhere around him. The pack was in a state of nothing else he could describe as but  _ steady,  _ like the sheer force of the pack bond was keeping them afloat. 

Periodically, Stiles would jolt in surprise or make noises at the screen at certain scenes, but he pointedly stayed in his position for way longer than five minutes. Allison or Scott would get them popcorn refills and one refill took a lot longer than the others when they decided to go to the kitchen together. 

Isaac wound up sandwiched between Boyd and Erica, like a werewolf three-way cuddle of sorts, while the other couple in the room were the first to fall asleep through the rest of the movie. And then Derek thinks, this wasn't at all a terrible bed to lie in. 

They make it to one more Bond movie before everyone was ready to go home. Scott and Allison were the first ones to duck out, followed by Jackson and soon after Lydia. Erica wakes Boyd to get a ride home and the two leave Isaac to his slumber. 

Derek was the last to almost fall asleep, with Stiles still tucked against him drooling on the front of Derek’s shirt. It was an easy decision to carry the teen to his bedroom, settling him down against the covers. He takes off Stiles’ shoes and pulls the comforter over him. 

He walked out again to see his remaining beta rousing from his sleep, blearily staring at the now powered off television. Isaac looks at Derek and mumbles an apology, for what Derek didn't know, but he senses a feeling of longing from Isaac as the blonde’s gaze flickers back to the couch. “I’ll just get some water and get going,” he says. 

Isaac shuffles to the kitchen and fills a glass of water, Derek on his tail. “You can stay, if you wanted to. Stiles is already out cold in the bedroom, I can take the couch.” 

Derek waits for a response that came very slowly, observing the way Isaac looks at him warily which he hasn't done in a long while, it's been a long-standing achievement between them. Derek's learning to balance nature and nurture in terms of ‘raising’ his betas, and Isaac’s learning to unfurl from his past trauma, trusting Derek as his Alpha and the good authority he responds to. 

“Is it- Isn't it bad form to share bedspace with the Alpha’s mate?” The blonde asks, and Derek looks at him taken-aback. Isaac flashes his eyes gold and ducks his head, apologising immediately. “Sorry sorry, that was presumptuous. I just- I thought, well not just me really but I -” 

“It's fine, Isaac,” Derek cuts him off, “no harm done.” The blonde sags a fraction in relief. “And the offer still stands, you can take the other side of the bed. Besides,” Derek claps him on the back turning him to the direction of the bedroom, “as long as the Alpha gives assent there's no problem. I know Stiles wouldn't mind you either.” 

Derek smells Isaac’s surprise more than he can see it, but he doesn't dwell on it, or anything really. He walks over to the unvacated couch where blankets and pillows were strewn at random, setting up a makeshift bed for himself.

There's popcorn on the crevices still but he’ll deal with those tomorrow, up and early when he’ll either make breakfast or let Stiles beat him to it, which the magnificent bastard does like to do at random when he feels especially intrusive and decides to show up out of nowhere at the ass crack of dawn to make mornings exceptionally raucous and bright.

God help Derek, but he doubts he’ll ever mind. 


	3. trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a moment of introspective silence when Derek came to wonder how his day started in a 4-hour drive to and from Sacramento to holding an axe in his hands about to take out a bark from a massive Rowan tree for unknown reasons.
> 
> He makes a mental note of rewarding himself with a milkshake after this before swinging the axe behind his shoulder and landing a clean, solid thwack.

Night three fell on his birthday. And just like every other year, he hadn't really found good reason to do anything about it. Birthdays used to be a massive deal in the Hale house, everyone was always present to them and it was even a competition between family members to get a perfect attendance. 

His mother would micro-manage the designs each sibling or cousin would be tasked to put up, and his dad  _ owned _ the kitchen along with either Laura or Derek (depends on which sibling didn't have their birthday on the day itself, he’d also even cook for his own celebrations), fixing up a birthday feast in time for every surprise. 

Of course, it wasn't so much as a surprise as it was an expected tradition, but the kids loved hiding in dark corners so they could spring out at the right time to scream ‘SURPRISE!’ at very unsurprised but equally pleased family members. 

It was all very elaborate, including the mandated plan of taking the celebrant to random errands so the house could be set up for the main event. Derek used to find it so silly, that since everyone knew what time the ‘surprise’ party was they could just get lost and show up when they needed to. 

But it was tradition, and Peter was always, always the one to take him on long drives to really stupid places. Like a hardware miles away from the nearest one they could have easily just went to, where his uncle would claim have the only stock of a certain brand of nails they’d search hours for. Then Peter would tell him he had forgotten he still had a lot at his drawer, and Derek would sigh in relief, looking forward to go back home.

It was tradition, and you don't just break tradition. Unless, of course, all the ones included in said tradition all happen to be dead. In which case, Derek had perfectly good reason to have broken it for nearly a decade now. 

But then Derek should have known something was up in the morning right away when he got a good few texts from some of his pack members calling in favours. Now, Derek definitely wasn’t a pushover Alpha, he was strict, if he does say so himself. Well, strict enough.  But when his pack needed him - he sure as shit was definitely there. 

It started with a 8am am rude awakening from Erica. She called him about four times before he finally registers that yes, that was his phone ringing and no, his subconscious did not conjure the Star Wars theme song to be the background music of his dream on repeat on its own. 

She sounded distressed, overly-so, and asked him to drive all the way to Sacramento for a parcel that was to be picked up from her father who had been in hospital for the past month. She sobbed continuously after asking him of it and Derek couldn’t even get in a word, couldn’t ask why the parcel couldn’t’ve just been mailed like any other normal package. She fits in a word of thanks between breaths and drops the call, and Derek then realises she hadn’t even mentioned the address.

He groans and heads to the bathroom to splash himself on the face awake. He gets ready, shoots Erica a text asking about the details and waits for a reply as he brushes his teeth. The text comes when he’s already ready to go out to the Camaro:

**_Erica Reyes - 8:32_ **

_ 2000 ROYAL OAKS DR SACRAMENTO, CA 95813 - 9998.  _

**_Erica Reyes - 8:37_ **

_ U’re the best. _

The second text came when he was already on the road, and upon reading it Derek gives a sigh. He puts on his big boy trousers, pushes up the sun visor out of the way, and drives to Sacramento. 

                                                                        . . .

 

He gets back in Beacon County at around twelve in the afternoon. Erica had her parcel dropped at her house while she was at remedial classes and he decides to grab some lunch at Zeek’s Diner. 

Derek was five bites into a rather greasy burger when he gets a text from Scott, which shouldn’t be anything else but something to do with a problem because Scott and him? Definitely weren’t text buddies. 

**_Scott McCall - 12:54_ **

_ > Derek v important i need Rowan bark frm d preserve  _

_ >> can’t go rn hands r tied w/ Deaton _

_ >>> dont take that literally _

_ >>>> hands r not actually tied w/ Deaton _

_ >>>>> but still pls hurry man _

Derek sighs and rubs a hand on his face. It’s a Saturday afternoon what the hell did Deaton and Scott need Rowan bark for? But then really anything concerning Deaton usually has  _ some  _ kind of magical paraphernalia involved. 

**_Scott McCall - 1:03_ **

_ > Also maybe a super long metal chain and three wolfsbane bullets _

_ >> Deaton’s request soz!!  _

Case in point. 

He gets his lunch as take out and makes a split second decision of ordering two helpings of curly fries to go with it in the bag. Zeek’s Diner served the absolute best curly fries in the entire state of California, as told by Stiles. Derek would be a monster to not get the teen’s favourite food whilst he was here. 

There’s a magazine filled with wolfsbane bullets stowed in the trunk of his car, courtesy of Allison Argent’s own theft from their home as a token of peace. He makes a stop at the hardware first for the metal chains and a brand new axe before heading to the Preserve. 

There was a moment of introspective silence when Derek came to wonder how his day started in a 4-hour drive to and from Sacramento to holding an axe in his hands about to take out a bark from a massive Rowan tree for unknown reasons.

He makes a mental note of rewarding himself with a milkshake after this before swinging the axe behind his shoulder and landing a clean, solid  _ thwack  _ that dismembers a considerable chunk of bark. 

                                                                           . . . 

Lydia meets him at the clinic, to his surprise. 

“Well don’t you look like a cliche, lumberjack,” she says primly, eyeing his wife beater dusted with wood chippings. Derek regards her with a flat look and deposits the items Deaton has asked for right on the counter, out in the open. One old lady looks suspiciously at the items, and then at them.

Lydia gives a whistle with her finger and they hear a loud thump followed by a rattling from out back, like someone’s just hit their head on metal. Then out comes Scott ambling towards them, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish grin.  “Thanks so much man, we owe you one!” His ears perk up and he tells them, “Deaton says thank you, too.”

“He can hear as well as you, Scott,” Lydia reminds him and Scott had the grace to look marginally embarrassed. “Right well see you guys later!” the beta greets cheerily before retreating back with his supplies in hand. 

When Derek turns to go out, Lydia snags the fabric of his shirt and opens her mouth, “What do you know about fixing car engines?”

And that’s how he ends up not even with a milkshake in his hands, but a canister of oil and a car rag. 

In between promises of Lydia buying her gratitude for him in kind and sighing in weariness as they finish up (there wasn't even anything wrong with Lydia’s car to  _ begin _ with, he thinks exasperatedly), Derek’s phone rings from his back pocket to which he flinches at. If he so much gets another text or call asking something from him, he swears to God… 

“What?” he answers gruffly.

_ “Well hello to you too, boo,”  _ Stiles’ voice carries out from the other line sardonically.  _ “What's gotten your furry tail in a twist? Or well, the proper question I suppose is what  _ hasn’t _ , our country is a trainwreck of a political mess and there are wars being waged in the middle east! Not to mention the sempiternal threat of global warming that we just can't seem to grasp and work on collectively. Terrible, terrible going ons, I can definitely see why I already feel the magnitude of frustration a single eyebrow of yours is broadcasting all the way from here.” _

“Stiles.”

_ “Oh lighten up, sourwolf. What time are you getting home?” _

“Around now I guess, are you there wreaking havoc in my loft?” 

_ “Please, your place receives most of its TLC from me. Don't make me remind you who found out the leak in the boiler room pipes when  _ someone  _ so graciously helped you out with your spring cleaning.” _

“I knew about that leak and had it in mind to fix, you just pointed it out.”

_ “Lies and deceit! And to think I had half the mind to make dinner tonight,”  _ Stiles tuts dramatically.

“And if I ask for forgiveness?” 

_ “I could reconsider reconsidering…”  _

“Just try not to burn anything -- again.”

_ “Don't start with me, that was  _ one _ time spare me the distrust! God, you set fire to a guy’s pot of macaroni and cheese once and you’d think you offended his entire wolfy species.”  _

“I’m coming home, I’m tired,” he almost certainly does not whine. 

_ “And I’m happy to serve. See you in a bit, honey-baked.”  _

Click. 

“Honey-baked?” Lydia snorts from behind him. Derek shrugs at her. “Cute,” she remarks as she gets in her car. “See you, Derek. Thanks again.” She revvs up her perfectly-functioning engine Derek can't help but glower at and presses a button to roll down the passenger window. “And happy birthday!” 

Sigh. Derek deserves all the damn milkshakes; he decides to get two on the way home.

When he pulls up to his apartment building, he hears the collective beating of 9 familiar different heart beats thrumming inside and looks at the pair of milkshakes and fries he brought that definitely wasn't enough to feed the whole pack. Time to put his faith in Stiles’ cooking, he decides. 

In the usual place of chatter, a disconcerting silence was contained inside his loft. There wasn’t any light coming from under the door and there is - shushing? Either something ominous was brewing inside or oh,  _ oh _ huh, did they - is this -?

Confirming his speculation, the door slides open with a swift grumble and the lights flicking open as his packmates chorus an enthusiastic, “SURPRISE!!” 

_ Ah _ , Derek thinks, it definitely is then. 

Scott’s cheerful face grins at him from the door and he’s pulled in - to his utmost surprise - by Cora, who’s wearing a birthday party hat upside down with the cone strapped to her chin. 

His sister then takes her chance to tackle him into a glomping hug that nearly has him staggering against the TV, and he’d berate her for that if he didn’t miss her this damn much. She practically shouts her birthday greetings at him before bounding past to join everyone else in setting the celebration in motion. 

Music starts from somewhere in the room and he’s being clapped on the back or hugged by various people as he makes his way to the couch, depositing the food he bought on the coffee table. 

He sees Scott, Lydia, and Allison heading over to tweak some decorations on the fixtures above; Erica, Boyd, and Isaac crowding close to him to greet their Alpha and after, scampering off to a different corner of the loft; and then there’s Jackson and Cora bickering about something near where the speakers were set up. It was loud and  _ bright. _

It’s a small party, smaller than what the Hales used to have; but with the colourful party designs arranged methodically around the loft (no doubt Lydia’s work), a massive banner hand-painted in blue paint incorrectly spelling out “S U P R I S E !” (which he finds out later was Scott’s very haphazard but otherwise appreciated effort), lights strung in the darker corners that usually don’t get lit up, and the smell of food and pack and  _ joy --  _

“Happy birthday, Sourwolf!” Stiles makes his entrance from the kitchen with a bonus cake balanced on his hand, nearly swooping down to present it to him all the way to where he was situated on the couch. 

It was a mango chiffon cake adorned with what looked like a wolf-shaped frowny face smack dab in the middle, he furrows his eyebrow at the fondant design and then Stiles cries out, 

“See! It looks  _ exactly  _  like him!” Which earns a laugh from everyone until Erica announced they start singing, nudging Boyd to stick an artificial candle next to the frowny-faced wolf’s head. 

The pack sings jovially in unison and it’s always been awkward, having everyone stare and sing at you when it’s your birthday. But there is nothing but the smell of pack, happiness, and he daresay  _ love  _ that permeated the air, and you don’t just shy away from that.

It’s almost, nearly, heart-wrenchingly,  _ just about _ felt like how it did when he was younger. There is warmth all around him and he feels the bond of the pack strengthen, pulse, and send something that seems to bloom underneath his sternum. 

The circle breaks when Allison volunteers to cut the cake for everyone, and Derek notes that Stiles must have baked it himself. There’s a bit of flour dusted across the cut of his cheekbone and icing caught on the edge of his grin. 

Conversation drifts around with the clattering of cutlery and plates together as they sit at the dining table, listening to Scott regaling his master plan of organising Derek’s very own Chore Day  _ (“And we were smart about it too, Derek can’t hear lies over the phone so we made sure to keep the contact through it!”) _ that Stiles must have told them all about.  He was the only one who knew about the Hale Surprise parties up until now aside from Cora.

The teen mouths an apology from across the table but Derek doesn’t mind, just shrugs and smiles down at the frowny wolf fondant Allison cut him specifically for his own plate. 

There’s a timer that dings distinctly from the kitchen and the betas all stand and rush to get dinner served. It was evident that the party was as much of an orchestrated event as it was a casual celebration, and for the first time in a terribly long time, Derek was glad he had turned another year older. 

“Compliments to the chef,” Lydia says appreciatively as she nods to Stiles who beams at the praise and flourishes his hand at the sumptuous dinner they had laid out for added effect.

“Yeah dude you pulled out all the stops,” Scott says amiably around a mouthful of quiche. “There’s quiche!” Allison chastises him for his manners quietly. 

Stiles laughs with everyone and the movement makes his eyes catch the shine of the party lights as he moves his gaze to Derek. “Well special occasions for special Souralphas call for special dinners,” he says blithely. “And now if I may, I propose a toast to our number one Alpha -”

_ “Hey!” _

“Scott  _ hush _ he went red in the eyes first okay, sit your True Alpha-ass down buddy. And that is not a weed joke, for the record,” Stiles brandishes his glass of orange juice warningly that cues more laughter. “Anyways,” he continues with a chuckle, “here’s to you Derek. To you and your surly eyebrows and your leather jackets and despite every month’s near-death experience, you always somehow make it out alive.”

Jackson clears his throat and joins in, “To the one we now don't hate as much as others!” There’s a chorus following Jackson’s words and as dinner continues, the pack surprises him yet again by bringing out their gift - a humorous caricature portrait of the entire pack that he hangs above the couch. 

Later on, it was a mutual decision that everyone stay over for the night after the girls proclaimed another impromptu pack night. Derek paid them no mind as they set up camp wherever they wished  while he took station at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in dishwater suds after taking another shower thanks to Lydia’s faux car problem.

It's no surprise - which was a first tonight - when Stiles sidles up next to him and starts wiping the dishes he’s finished scrubbing clean. 

“Weren't you the one who made that rule that the chef should never do the dishes?” Derek says, tilting his head.

“Well there's also that rule that the birthday boy gets immunity from chores for one day and you broke that.”

“Who and when did anyone make that rule?”

“Just now by me,” Stiles says simply, placing his favourite mug on the drying rack. 

“Right. Well what other rules should I know about?”

“Hmm,” the boy hums thoughtfully as he wipes down a serving plate. “How about no scowling allowed on weekends?” 

“Just the weekends?” Derek huffs out a laugh. Stiles grins at him and nods. “Yeah ‘cause I know looking grumpy is sort of your full-time job and I don't blame you, those eyebrows would get hired in a heartbeat for this occupation, hands-down. But even professional grump-stumps need like a day off or something.” 

The Alpha rolls his eyes and flicks foam at the teen who exclaims at the suds, then nose-dives into Derek's shoulder to wipe the offending bubbles on his night shirt.

“Rule number 4, no using bubbles against your denmaker!” Stiles declares indignantly, and Derek’s heart went and tripped on its own ventricles. 

He misses a couple of beats in the conversation that Stiles catches on so he hip-checks the werewolf and smiles placatingly. “Hey, I'm totally the denmaker, don't have a private freak out about this over the dishes I usually wash, in the kitchen I usually cook for the pack in.”

Derek takes a breath, “Yes but Stiles, do you understand what -”

“Derek James Hale don't you dare question my extensive research on folklore and pack dynamics. Do you even know who you're speaking to?” 

The older man fixes him with a look that Stiles only scoffs at and he says, “I choose to be the denmaker, it's no big deal. Plus, what would you and the rag-tag pups do without me? Especially Scott, doesn't matter if he’s technically also an Alpha, he’ll always be an overgrown fur ball to me.”

Derek looks down at the sink and starts scrubbing with more intent that necessary as he mumbles, “It's a big deal alright…” 

“Look Der-bear, you can resume your little manpain when it's not your birthday. Tonight, we're one happy family - or is it pack, whatever - and you got me curly fries and milkshakes and we got you a surprise party. Feel the love, schnookums!” 

“You’ll feel something alright if you call me ‘schnookums’ one more time.” 

Stiles throws his head back as he laughs, the column of his throat bared and pale and Derek sortofkindofjustalittlebit wants to satisfy the primal instinct to  _ bite.  _ But the voice in his head that suspiciously sounds like Stiles himself whispers,  _ Down boy.  _

“Never change, Derek, never change.” 

Stiles’ eyes fucking  _ sparkles  _ in the moonlight and Derek feels personally victimised by it. 

With minimum noise, they finish cleaning up and wordlessly walk over the bodies of his slumbering pack and into the bedroom. Stiles trails behind him without hesitance in his gait and they get ready for bed. It's a domestic show of weaving across each other’s paths to get in and out clothes, brush their teeth, get in the sheets, and the only time they spoke was when a brief argument arose about who was getting up to close the lights. 

  
In between losing said argument and the time it  took for him to cross the room where the light switch was and his return to shuffle back under the covers, Derek wonders when he missed the part where it started to feel right to fall into bed with Stiles; and then after, for his heart to fall along with him.


	4. quatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles turns his head up to look pleadingly at the werewolf, eyes wild and wide and searching for something Derek wishes he could find for him. “It's different, Derek.” 
> 
> The Alpha nods and presses his mouth against the boy’s hairline, and he mumbles repeatedly against it, “I believe you, I believe you, I believe you.”

The fourth time it happened, it was on a September night. 

Stiles told him long ago that it was raining when she died. He was eleven and had just gotten his dad to let him buy his own lunchables when he came home to a phone call that set his childhood to raze. 

He said the call was simple: the nurse had instructed him to get his Dad and drive them both to the hospital, but everything else that followed after that wasn’t as uncomplicated. That afternoon found the two Stilinskis sitting in Claudia’s hospital room praying every second she could pull through, but of course, she hadn't. It was Stiles’ decision to bury her with all his and the Sheriff’s favourite things to take with to heaven, take some of the best parts of them with her. 

The boy once recounted how they had stood over her grave with rain pelting down their already-wet faces while the local priest blessed the damp soil with holy water, the world deciding to mourn with them again, and that was the moment he decided he hated monsoons. He lost Claudia twice on two different accounts of wet weather, and see Stiles has always loved the rain, but he loved his mother more. 

**Stiles Stilinski - 11:36 PM**

_ hey im coming over  _

**Derek Hale - 11:37 PM**

_ > ok. Storm isn’t letting up yet _

_ >> had dinner? _

**Stiles Stilinski - 11:52 PM**

_ > not hungry _

_ >> im going up now, okay?  _

**Derek Hale - 11:52 PM**

> _ go ahead _

He hears the sound of footfalls before he sees Stiles in the living room. The teen wastes no second as he makes a beeline towards Derek who had a plate of pepperoni pizza in his hands because Stiles is a liar, he's always hungry. 

He nearly barrels into Derek as he clings to his torso like a lifeline, he doesn't sob or sniff but he does exhale the deepest sigh Derek’s ever heard from him. 

“Can you take it away?” Stiles whispers tiredly into the crook of his shoulder, the tips of his hair almost saturated with rainfall if it wasn’t for the beanie he has on.

“Take what away?” 

“The hurt,” he breathes out, shoulders tense like a bow. “How about your - your claws, can sticking them in my spine make me forget?” 

Derek sets the pizza down on the breakfast bar and slowly finds his arms around the teen’s waist. This way, he smells his grief and his anger, stark and biting against the usual underlying scent that has always reminded Derek of autumn. But right now Stiles trembles like winter, skin chilled and still raised in goose bumps from the cold of outside’s bad weather.

Derek considers grappling for the right words that he simply doesn't have, so instead he leads them by the hand to the couch, settling into the soft leather where the human grips his palm tight, occasionally wincing whenever the sky would open up a bit more and the muted sounds of this week’s storm would sound like it was trying to break in the windows. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, “I don’t really want to forget.”  Derek rubs circles into the hand squeezing his. “I know,” he replies,  “not when memories are all we have sometimes.” 

Stiles looks to hesitate for a minute, but then collects his breath before saying, “Today I woke up to thunderstorms and my dad had Jack Daniel’s for breakfast.” He swallows.

“It took three missed phone calls to Scott and a really big box of her things my dad brought out for some sort of sad commemoration day he decided to drown himself in before I had a panic attack that lasted for nearly half an hour. I don’t blame Scott for not picking up or my dad for grieving in his own way or for fuckin’ - fuckin’  _ genetics  _ for making her susceptible to developing a degenerative disease that could even have been passed down to me but  _ god  _ it’s been a long time since I’ve been this angry.

“I don’t know why, what’s like - what’s  _ different  _ this time, this year. Maybe because there’s a storm, or maybe because, I don’t know, it's a Monday and I had to make a drink for a lady who had the same name as her at work. But I guess I’m, it's - it's not as easy this time, okay?” He recoils immediately and hurriedly says, “No wait that's not what I meant no, it wasn't like - it was never easy, just… just that,” he takes a shuddering breath, “it hurts the same, and yet it's different.”

Stiles turns his head up to look pleadingly at the werewolf, eyes wild and wide and searching for something Derek wishes he could find for him.  “It's  _ different,  _ Derek _.”  _

The Alpha nods and presses his mouth against the boy’s hairline, and he mumbles repeatedly against it, “I believe you, I believe you, I believe you.” 

The branches outside rap violently against the windows, wind howling with a vengeance -- it was not a quiet night. And Stiles who sits meekly against Derek’s chest, fiddling with his hands like he was trying to figure out an anatomical rubik’s cube, was not a quiet person. But right now he is, silent and hardened and Derek doesn’t quite know what to do to make him better. 

“Do you have any alcohol?” Stiles suddenly asks. He pulls away from his position and stalks toward the kitchen quicker than Derek thought he would move, sending him scrambling to ward Stiles off his cupboard where they both know where the booze was stashed for special occasions. 

He slides to a stop in front of Stiles and awkwardly holds his hand out at his sides. “I - uhm, it’s gone. All of it, sorry.” 

Stiles snorts and moves to push past him. “I do your grocery with you, you can’t have finished all those bottles in the span of two weeks. You haven’t even gotten around to lacing any of them either.” He almost makes it to stand closer to the cupboard when Derek grabs him by the waist and spins the both of them around so that they’re back where they started. 

“You asked me if I had any alcohol, I’m answering no I don't. I have pizza?” 

“And I have my mother's death anniversary over my head,” Stiles deadpans, Derek winces. The teen sighs and raises a hand to rest on the area where the other’s heart beats. “Can't you get me this one thing?” 

“Anything _ ,”  _ Derek says before he can think about it.  _ Everything. I’ll get it all for you.  _ Stiles looks at him with surprise, mirroring his own probably, and Derek continues, suddenly not knowing where to put his hands, “Just, maybe not this. It's not...safe?” 

He doesn't believe Stiles’ smile that spreads slow and sad, he finds himself wishing he could catch a bit of genuineness in it between his teeth. Stiles takes off Derek's hands from his waist and says, “I’m with you, don't you think I'm the safest I’ll ever be?” 

In hindsight, it was probably the poorest of forms for Derek to fold so easily from the touch of a hand and a wry smile thrown his way, but that's how they end up drinking alcohol in the middle of the night with the older man making a point to drink more despite his inability to get drunk off of unlaced alcohol. The consolation he has is that they made a compromise of Stiles having dinner along with it.

They both knew his plan to finish the bottle of Ballantine before Stiles could get any drunker, but at least the teen allows him this protective measure. Up until recently Derek didn’t see the point of getting cable, so he let the pack coerce him into getting Netflix and so  _ Shameless  _ plays in front of them while they take alternating swigs of the whiskey. 

“Y’know,” Stiles starts slowly, “Lydia told me this was the colour of my eyes.” He raises the bottle in between them. 

“Yeah?” Derek responds, as if he hasn't noticed already; as if he hadn't had that one drunken night in Mexico, trying to figure out why staring at a shot of Suntory whiskey catching the overhead lights of the club Cora had sent him to made him feel incredibly homesick. 

“Yeah.” Suddenly, Stiles wasn't at all at the other end of the couch but had crawled nearer to him. “Can you confirm?” His smile slips into a dopey grin. 

Derek takes the bottle from his hands and downs it all in in one go. Stiles makes an aborted whimper at watching the amber liquid get chugged like water, watching it slowly decrease in volume with rapt interest. “All gone,” he says wistfully. 

“All gone,” Derek grunts, feeling a bit bloated at his mass consumption. He watches Stiles’ eyes train on his mouth that was probably glistening with whiskey. The boy sways closer and shakes his head disapprovingly, but Derek lets him settle back down on his front anyways. 

Stiles has always been different versions of drunk, as Derek has had the misfortune to witness (but someone had to keep an eye on everyone once the frequent pack parties started after Stiles had turned 18, the last of everyone who was barely-legal to drink). He can be the talkative type of drunk, which was an actual terror to behold. The boy could talk anyone’s ears off on a good day, inebriated he could almost be lethal with his complete lack of reticence and tact. 

He can also be a bilingual drunk and sing in two languages all night long, or an uncontrollable giggling type of drunk that could be endearing if it wasn't entirely overboard. Even an angry-drunk Stiles couldn't keep quiet, not when he had strong opinions on a lot of things including but not limited to pineapples on pizza, his teacher Harris, cats and werewolves, etc. 

But this was the first of his kind of drunk that spoke volumes of sadness by the uncharacteristic silence he keeps. 

Derek knows he's not asleep yet because Stiles traces patterns on the surface of his shirt, feels him draw circles, squares, squiggles and swirls and zig-zags. Then he starts to draw letters, although the Alpha couldn't quite decipher what it spelled out. The show is still playing in front of them, filling the silence between. 

On screen, Fiona and her dysfunctional family deal with Jimmy walking out of their lives. Derek's long been lost since the first episode, but Stiles makes a grumbling noise at the TV and says out loud, “That sucks.”

“What does?” 

“People leaving,” he says plaintively, and then, “did I tell you to stop stroking my hair? I don’t -” he hiccups, “I don't think so.” 

Derek brings back his hand to the boy’s scalp. 

“It's even more suckier when people get taken away from you. They’re there one minute and the next the universe just - just does its damn thing. Gone, no more,  _ poof.”  _

“I know,” Derek rubs a comforting swipe of his thumb across the boy’s neck. “It really does.” 

Stiles then decides to sit up and looks at him with wide, serious eyes. Amber, even more pure than any Ballantine bottle could produce. 

“I won't do that,” Stiles says seriously. “I-I refuse to disappear. I refuse to be taken away. Mark my words Hale,“ he pushes a pliant forefinger that lands incorrectly on the werewolf’s collarbone, missing his chest. “I will, will kick and  _ scream _ and-and fight until the universe goes deaf and decides to let me stay. It can't keep doing that, not to us. Not again.” 

Derek looks surprised at the vehemence of his words but nods in acknowledgment. The boy copies the action firmly, slumping in his seat as if that was the mollifying gesture he needed for the tenseness in his shoulders to seep out. 

But then his bottom lip wavers in the slightest and his eyes go just on this side of glassy: he was about to cry, and Derek, who has taken on kanimas, witches, an army of gremlins, and an entire pack of Alphas among much worse threats, was about to  _ panic.  _

Derek shifts in his seat abruptly and holds out one hand placatingly. “Hey, hey no it's okay, you're okay. You know we won't let that happen. There's no way we'll let anyone take you away from us.” 

Stiles breathes a shaky laugh and head butts himself on the joint of Derek's shoulder. “I know, yeah. I may be buzzed but I haven’t entirely went dumb yet, you know. Besides,” he sits upright, “as if Erica would let anyone else be the Batman to her Catwoman.” 

“Yeah, and your dad would no doubt start a town-wide manhunt or larger if you got taken by supernatural causes or not.” This is true, because, “It’s happened before, don’t think we all haven’t been briefed thoroughly on what to do when a hag holes you up in her cave again for sacrificial purposes by the Sheriff. And Deaton.” The memory brings a smile to the brunet’s face. 

“You're not wrong,” Stiles agrees with an upturn of his lips, he looks up to follow with, “and then-and then  _ you _ would -” Derek at once moves to fit his palms on the hand-holds of the human’s face as he leant close, a tender gesture that should probably scare either one off but instead grounds them.  _ And then, _ Derek tells him, 

“I would burn the whole goddamn world down,” he brushes a thumb above the boy’s jaw, catching on the corner of his smile, “if it meant pulling you out of the ashes.” 

Stiles gives a slow intake of breath, fixes him with this  _ look.  _ There's a beat, and then he exhales to say, “Woah. That's pretty fucking metal, man.” It breaks the heavy air around them and just like that, despite the storm still raging on outside the walls and everywhere around, they breathe again. 

. . .

(Derek wakes up to an empty bed and a note on a pillow that smells like Stiles saying,

_ Went to grad practice. There’s breakfast in the oven to heat up.  _

_ Thanks for letting me crash again, Der-bear xx  _

He almost misses the post-script scrawled on the back when he brings out the still-warm waffles made from scratch, from the looks of it. The werewolf catches the silhouette of its ink from the front when he brings it up against the sun-filtered windows. 

_ P.S.  _   
_ I’d burn the whole goddamn world down if it meant pulling you out of the ashes, too.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Derek tells the truth


	5. cinq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the day Derek Hale less than finds and more of recognises the missing piece his heart was looking for. And this is the day he almost loses his entire world.

On the last day of graduation practice, the Hale-McCall pack ditches to complete an extra full week of training attributable to a supernatural disturbance in the area. The threat was clear enough after a handful of weeks’ worth of investigation (or as Stiles likes to call it, ‘sniffing out’): shapeshifters, and then some. But they’d figure that little unidentifiable _extra_ in the air could wait until after graduation,  which was in two days, no thank you very much.

Derek and Scott had worked the pack hard enough for them to be unable to even _think_ to get rusty, but it wasn't as sizeable of a danger as say, a pack of Alphas out to destroy them or anything of the with- intent-to-murder-everyone ilk. In fact the shifters have only so far attacked animals in the preserve, which raised more of a problem with the Beacon Hills Wildlife Protection Assoc. than the Hale pack was concerned.

So really, you could almost say everything was still going a surprising amount swimmingly.

(Until it wasn't.)

**Stiles Stilinski - 12:22 PM**

_ > not to sound ungrateful or anything, but im SO bored _

_ >> jelly u guys are bonding over there _

**Derek Hale - 12:36 PM**

_ > suck it up _

_ >> that's what you get for graduating salutatorian. speeches and perfect attendances comes with it _

**Stiles Stilinski - 12:36 PM**

_ > oh thank GOD you replied, this is the third time they’ve made us redo the graduation march bc of greenburg _

_ >> im so hungry. provide 4 me! _

_ >>> Hale im so serious u dnt even know how serious i am w/ the idea of orange fried chicken in my  mouth right now _

**Derek Hale - 12:37 PM**

_among other things i presume?_

**Stiles Stilinski - 12:37 PM**

_ > did u just make a joke? _

_ >> pertaining to having a dick in my mouth? _

**Derek Hale - 12:39 PM**

_ > not as explicitly stated, no _

_ >> i believe the proper term is ‘innuendo’ _

_ >>> scott says hi _

**Stiles Stilinski - 12:51 PM**

_ > slr mock speech w/ Lydia _

_ >> ive finally raised u right, sweetcheeks _

_ >>> hopefully that's not all of urs ill be capable of raising ;) _

_ >>>> hi scotty boy!! _

**Derek Hale - 12:52 PM**

_ > if you think graduating second in your batch because of your genius makes you funny _

_ >> you are wrong _

**Stiles Stilinski - 12:52 PM**

_but ur proud of me anyways?_

**Derek Hale - 12:53 PM**

_ > yeah _

_ >> always _

**Stiles Stilinski - 12:54 PM**

_:)_

“Derek!” Erica calls from the ground where she has Jackson in a choke hold. “Stop texting Stiles and make Jackson tap out!” Her blonde hair looks to be nearly suffocating him. “Oh and say hi to pack-mom for me!”

Derek sighs through his nose and looks over where Scott was fixing his tangled shoelaces. “McCall I thought you were on duty!” Scott's head snaps up and he smiles sheepishly. “Sorry dude, I had to pee.”

His phone buzzes in his hands again and starts playing the Batman theme song, and at this he could almost _see_ all the beta’s ears perk up at the familiar ringtone, even Jackson didn't look constipated for a hot second.

“Stiles!” Isaac and Scott exclaim brightly as the blond pauses from rough housing with Boyd. In the distance, Erica makes something of a battle cry of her new favourite word, “Pack-mom!!!”

Derek answers the call with an, “Aren't you supposed to be pretending you're graduating or something?”

 _“I’ve shook the same seven hands eighteen times, Derek._ Eighteen times. _It's a late lunch break right now, fuckin’_ finally.”

“Tragic,” he says nonchalantly but could not stop the smile playing on his lips. In the background he senses his betas still as if they were waiting for something. When Boyd cocks an eyebrow at him Derek takes a hint.

“Oh and the betas say hi.” At that, the ruckus immediately resumes as if someone had pressed unpause. “By the way, what the hell is a pack mom?” Stiles releases a groan from the other end of the line and mutters a complaint about Erica and the internet.

 _“Long story. You are all incredibly_ fortunate _that my masculinity is entirely secure or else the werecubs would be receiving a very stern lecture on rampant sexism and gender role ideation. God, don’t even get me started on my cookies.”_ He takes what seems to be a calming breath to pause. _“But anyways, hi kids!”_

While steadily getting and remaining lost on whatever Stiles was talking about, Isaac clambers away from the group to hover over Derek’s side. “Can I talk to him?” He asks.

The Alpha hands over the phone to the blond and conversation immediately picks up between the two. He hears Stiles keep up a light-hearted chatter, asking Isaac about their training so far and checking in on his alleged ‘toga problem’. Isaac talks to him with the kind of enthusiasm that he doesn’t usually don unless it’s got something to do with killing or maiming something for revenge. Which, honestly wasn’t out of the ordinary, but then Erica ambles along behind him not long after with Boyd in tow, and then at one point Scott and Allison decided to join in on the now group-conference.

“Jesus, you’d think they haven’t talked to each other in five days and not five hours,” Jackson grumbles, the last of everyone to huddle in the little group he was watching excitedly talking to Stiles as if sharing the story of how Allison _totally_ got ripped off with that recent taser gun purchase or Erica’s new bra that had a wine pouch ( _“Game changer, Catwoman!”)_ was something they couldn’t let Stiles miss out on _._

Boyd even asks him to pick up YEO yogurt after practice and Jackson finds an opening to gloat about his new Hugo Boss suit, and the thing is he was _there._ They were all there. They had gravitated towards Stiles not completely unlike a moth to a flame but rather, a family to a hearth. And all it took was a single phone call.

“Hey buddy don’t forget game night tonight, okay?” Scott says hopefully.

_“Wouldn't miss it for the world, Scotty boy. Tell Allison we’ll storm up to Taze n’ Blaze this weekend for a refund.”_

“Thank you, Stiles!” Allison chimes in.

_“Isaac, have you tried club soda on that toga?”_

“Well now I will,” Isaac says thoughtfully and heads into the mostly rebuilt Hale house. It would take a few more months to get finished but the first floor was functional enough and the contractors already had scaffholding assembled for the second and third level.

_“If everyone promises to not give our Alphas a hard time, I'm bringing home YEO yogurt and the last batch of yesterday’s cookies I hid from everyone.”_

“Rude, Stilinski!” Jackson says. “I was about to give you a Roberto Cavalli tie but now that you've mentioned that it would probably look better in my collection anyways.”

 _“Oh boo hoo sweetheart, I can and will take away your gingersnap privileges if I have to,”_ Stiles snarks, but then adds, _“also don’t eat the peanut butter crumble in the fridge. You don't want to get hives on your allergic wolfy ass again, do you.”_

“Can I have his share, then?” Erica butts in with an almost predatory grin. She's apparently developed a baked goods-lust ever since Stiles brought them brownies one day, then went and spoiled everyone since.

_“Sure thing, Reyes. Save some for Isaac and Scott. Now someone get me back to big bad wolf before lunch break ends.”_

The phone gets passed back to Derek who stares at them all with wonder. They turn to talk amongst themselves to give their Alpha and Stiles some semblance of privacy, and in the corner of his eye, he catches Erica shake her head floutingly slow and mouths _“I’m the favourite child”_ at the group.

_“You there, Derek?”_

“Yes.”

_“Okay so I need you to thaw the turkey for dinner, take it out around 4:30 ish. Scott and Alli already promised to help out Melissa with the other fixings so let me handle that later. Make yourself useful with the turbo marinade until then.”_

“Uh, are we having people over?”

 _“Uh, yes we're having people over,”_ Stiles mimics. _“Have you forgotten about the pre-grad dinner?”_

Derek frowns, “I didn't know we were cooking, I thought I was just going to take everyone out to eat?”

_“Well lucky for you, you will in fact, not have to.”_

“Oh, well, I sorta already made reservations at _Zazie_ after graduation, I wasn't clear on the date either, sorry.”

_“Really?”_

“Take Stiles out to dinner!” Allison suddenly pipes up. She doesn't even _have_ preternatural hearing, what-

Stiles’ laughter rings from the speakers and he says, “ _Good idea. Can't let that reservation go to waste now, can we?”_

Derek opens his mouth, he feels like this should be momentous. There was a line, a line they liked to bend and dip a toe in and sometimes ignore on a more intimate night, but the line was always there, just waiting to be crossed.

He's got a finger hooked on that metaphor now, having fully realised how Stiles had somehow gone and built a family out of their little group of people with missing parts. His mother, Talia, had always reminded them of the importance of every pack member and the roles they played in the hierarchy. It wasn't as black and white as Alphas and Betas, there was everything in between too.

The denmaker, as the human has instated himself as, played quite possibly the most vital part for a pack to be more than a collective group but instead, an unshakable force tethered by a profound connection held in the heart of a denmaker, spiderwebbed to the rest. They have a place most treasured amongst all, and Derek - well, he decides to do his damnest to make sure that place was by his side.

He tugs the line free.

“Of course,” he says a little breathless, an epiphany knocked out from his lungs. Stiles chuckles, and it sends a warmth to settle somewhere down his solar plexus.

God, how could he have _missed it?_ Missed the part where he unknowingly put his pack, all his trust, and all of him into the hands of Stiles Stilinski, who Erica declared makes the best damn cookies (she knew, even before everyone recognised his place, she _knew)_ has the fucking _sunshine_ between the stretch of his lips and - and god, a collection of constellations on his skin. Derek wants to map it all out. For a long while - for as long as Stiles will have him -  for (maybe, stupidly, hopefully)  forever.

All of this, over one otherwise normal phone call.

“ _Great, it’s a date. See you all soon!”_

Click.

He takes a moment to internalise the frankly earth-shaking introspective affair that took place in a comical matter of ten minutes.

Scott tilts his head and looks like he just ate a lemon. “Dude, did you- did I just, like, smell you _falling in love_?”

Boyd shakes his head at the sentiment. “No,” he crosses his arms and shrugs, “I think you smelled him realising he was all along.”

Derek doesn’t reply, he’s having a moment. Let him have this.

But the moment doesn't last, _of course_ it doesn't. Because this is where the other shoe drops, this is when a sudden bloodcurdling scream _tears_ through the backyard that came from inside the house. All the wolves were immediately shifted and raced to the area where they find Isaac in a heap on the floor, skin burned and steaming. Lacerations ran through his body and the area smelled of - of _nothing._

“What the _fuck?”_ Erica growls through her fangs as she drops down to her knees in front of her packmate. Isaac was alive, of that they were sure of, but he was badly burned and it looked like lightning had struck him.

“Call Deaton,” Scott says gravely, Boyd takes the cue to duck out and dial the emissary’s phone. They circle Isaac’s body, entirely too wary to touch him yet. But Erica was always some type of heedless, she puts both palms on Isaac’s abdomen and black matter races through her veins. She should have stopped at a good fifteen seconds but her narrowed eyes were kept trained on her packmate and her hands did not give.

“Erica,” Derek rumbles warningly as he sees her turn paler. Pain was not meant to be completely taken and owned, and especially not in this case. She stumbles back on her bottom with a slump in her shoulders but she flashes her golden eyes at the two Alphas.

He smells her rage and he smells the hurt in Isaac but he can't pick up _anything_ on what could have caused it. He exchanges a look with Scott who looks just as vexed when Boyd bursts back into the house, eyes wild and stricken with urgency. The air thickens with panic.

“The high school is on lockdown. There’s a school shooting.”

Mother _fucking_ hell.

* * *

 

“What do you _mean_ we can’t barge in the school?!” Scott nearly shrieks at the clinic. Deaton turns to him with this stare.

Shape shifters controlled by corrupted mages waging a war against each other, with full intent to take everyone else down with them, is what they were dealing with. Clearly, a masked school shooting is what you get when you combine the untraceable power of a being who exists to copy _existence_ and the vengeful presence of warlocks gone wrong in the base of their beings. Having enroached Hale territory in the process of their moving war, the pack had all rights to settle it themselves once and for all.

There is a tactical approach to this, he knows there is.  Usually drawn up by Stiles, if they were all to be honest. But Stiles can’t draw anything right now, because he’s on lockdown in a magically contained school auditorium. Derek feels something burn close to his lungs.

“Derek’s right,” the second Alpha gnarls. Deaton raises an infuriatingly placid eyebrow and points out, “He hasn’t said anything.”

Jackson steps up to close their circle. “He doesn’t have to,” he says, “his face says we kill everything standing in the way of the pack. And that’s what we’re going to do.”

And because both Stiles and Lydia are currently trapped in the absolute _bullshit_ that is a shapeshifter-mage cross-fire, this is what the plan boils down to without much fanfare and actual plotting: kill whatever has their humans in captive, and then burn their prisoners down.

* * *

 

There is a moment, of heart-breaking proportions, when they hear a banshee’s scream.

There’s police cars littering the perimetres of Beacon Hills High School and the Sheriff is in front of the double doors, looking like thunder personified. Everyone was ready for a code triple-six, which is what supernatural cases have been recently dubbed as and recognised by the select group of deputies in on the clusterfuck that is Beacon Hills’ curious casualties and their causes.

John immediately picks up on the pack’s presence like a wolf, and when he turns to look at Derek his eyes gleam like that of the red flash of an Alpha. This is what the two men understand, out of the steaming pile of shit that they leave mostly untouched when it comes to trying to interlock the supernatural world with Derek and his pack as the front-liner defense and the non-supernatural world with John Stilinski and the BHPD as theirs; this is the one thing that will ever be clear as day to an Alpha and a Sheriff who is also a father:

 _No one_ hurts Stiles Stilinski without all of the fiery depths of hell coming at them front, sideways, and back.

So when they hear the scream, _Lydia’s_ scream, it takes all of the life force in the two men to not drop to their knees and call upon every deity that might exist to open the sky and make sure it wasn’t Stiles’ soul Lydia Martin screamed for.

John turns his gaze to Derek, mouth set in a grim line. “Ready, Hale?”

All it took was a stride forward for everyone to come charging in.

(Here’s something Derek won’t ever tell anyone, a sort of behind-the-scenes private moment when he was in the Camaro earning himself three different speeding fines and a texting while driving offense if half of the police force didn't have bigger fish to fry, all the way before explosive battle and during the searching segment. Something he knows he would take to his grave however way that day ended.

It all comes down to a series of texts.

**Stiles Stilinski - 3:32 PM**

_ > i kbwo ur all on ur way _

_ >> *know _

_ >>>  just wanted to tell u im trying to keep every1 as safe as i can _

_ >>>> so far the mountain ash is the only conceivable weapon we hve agnst them _

_ >>>>> fuck i hope to god you all hve figured it out _

_ >>>>>> warlocks theyre controlling the shifters from somewherw  nt here _

_ >>>>>>> pls have this figured out fuck _

**Derek Hale - 3:37 PM**

_ > we’ve got it, stiles _

_ >> stay safe i swear to god if _

_ >>> just stay alive, we'll be there _

**Stiles Stilinski - 3:37 PM**

_ > tell the police the humans r in electricl basement _

_ >> we r all safe _

_ >>> just pls hurry the fight is going strong _

_ >>>> shifters came here 2 feed off fear n lydia thinks blood 2 _

**Derek Hale - 3:37 PM** **_[Missed call]_ **

**Derek Hale - 3:38 PM** **_[Missed call]_ **

**Derek Hale - 3:45 PM** **_[Missed call]_ **

**Derek Hale - 3:45 PM** **_[Missed call]_ **

 

**Derek Hale - 3:47 PM**

_ > stiles can yop pick up? _

_ >> text y or n _

**Derek Hale - 3:49 PM**

_ > sriles?? _

_ >> whwre are you?? _

**Derek Hale - 3:54 PM**

_ > reply with anything _

_ >> anything at all please _

 

**Stiles Stilinski - 4:09 PM**

_ > fuck sorry _

_ >> we ere missing five people _

_ >>> had to gt tgem down _

_ >>>> shifters got guns i dont kbwo why had to split to hide _

_ >>>>> im fucjing scared derek i _

_ >>>>>> im in a cubixle right now theyre right ourside the bathroom _

**Derek Hale - 4:09 PM**

_ > uv got this do whatever it takes to stay safe _

_ >> please _

_ >>> please tell me ur phone is on silent _

**Stiles Stilinski - 4:10 PM**

_ > yeah _

_ >> theyre inside nw derek _

_ >>> i see tge shoes _

_ >>>> i xan hear the shotgun _

_ >>>>> fuck _

**Derek Hale - 4:10 PM**

_ > were here we’r coming we’re in _

**Stiles Stilinski - 4:10 PM**

_ > shit theyr _

_ >> in front of the nxt stall _

**4:11 PM**

_ > im goind dwn with a fight _

_ >> save them ok _

_ >>> look aftr the pack _

_ >>>> i love you _

This is the day Derek Hale less than finds and more of recognises the missing piece his heart was looking for. And this is the day he almost loses his entire world.)

 

* * *

 

The fifth time it happens, the cat goes out of the bag. No, the whole goddamn _zoo_ stampedes out of it.

After the shit show of the shapeshifter attack that ended in summoning mages that have gone out of their minds and subsequently setting fire to them and having to cook up a cover-up story for the entire graduating class et al, Derek spends two days mustering up the courage to talk to John Stilinski about a pressing matter.

Stiles was already discharged from the hospital after sustaining minor injuries, but was ordered on bed rest for the concussion he obtained from the assail. When the Alpha pulled up to the Stilinski house he knew the human was asleep, and that the Sheriff was inside watching something on television, and he knew that this - whatever he’s about to do - is a now or never type of thing. He chooses now.

When he knocks on the door, John doesn’t bother asking him what his business here was, just tells him to come in, have a seat, and asks if he favoured the Giants or the Mets. When they were both settled on separate armchairs, Derek starts with, “Sir, I have something to discuss with you.”

John regards him coolly, as if they hadn’t have to save the town together not even three days ago. “What is it?”

Derek clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “It’s about - about Stiles.” Upon the mention of his son’s name, John takes a deep breath. He stands up and the werewolf almost thinks he was about to get walked out on, but the Sheriff returns with two bottles of beers in hand, one offered to him that he takes.

“Any conversation concerning my kid requires some type of alcohol,” John explains, cracking his bottle open on the edge of the coffee table. Derek opens his with a claw that retracted as fast as it came out when the Sheriff looks at it warily. “So,” he says, “what about Stiles?”

The werewolf steels himself. “To be straightforward with you, Sir, I came here to...announce my intentions involving uh, your son.” Derek winces at his own awkwardness.

“And what are those intentions?” John asks lightly, with a dangerous undertone that Derek needn’t be a werewolf to hear, setting his beer down like a threat. And now, Derek might be an Alpha werewolf, an apex predator, someone who can howl an entire forest into fleeing and pluck a full-grown tree from its roots, but right now - right now he’s downright _terrified_ of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.

But if there’s one thing Derek has learned, it’s to pick his battles, and this particular one is something he’ll decidedly never stop fighting for.

“I know this is awfully of old-fashioned of me and it won’t sit well with your son but,” the werewolf takes a breath, “despite whatever fight he’ll put up when he hears about this, your opinion matters to him. You matter to him. And that’s why I’m here, Sir, I would like to - to ask for permission to court Stiles. I want to do it right.”

John’s look is the exact one he had when they told him that werewolves existed, among other supernatural things, and that a bunch of teenagers and a young adult Alpha was in charge of saving them all. He opens his mouth once, closes it, opens it twice, closes it, and then he takes a long drink.

“Y’know,” John settles into his armchair, “when my kid was seven he found out that Lydia Martin was struggling with a broken home. I remember receiving multiple noise complaint calls from the Martin’s neighbours and it got to the point where she had once run away and had been caught by a shopkeeper. That was when Stiles decided he needed to build her a new home and family. He asked me if we could build a treehouse big enough to be inhabitable in the backyard for her to live in and raised _multiple_ questions about adoption and if we could give her a new set of parents. This lasted all of three months before the Martin family decided to take a vacation and came back more...stable, you could say.

“In those three months my kid had been hell-bent on his idea of fixing the wrong things in her life for her single-handedly. He didn't even say anything about how maybe if he did this, she would love him back, no, I realised at some point that he was doing this in an entirely selfless gesture of looking after his crush. It definitely sounds ridiculous and juvenile now after everything, but at the time there was nothing more important to him than making things right for Lydia. Claudia, my late wife, would always tell me to not burst his bubble and that I shouldn't stop him from finding the ‘centre of his universe’, as she put it. She's always been one to speak in poetry.” John finishes with a wistful half-smile.

The Sheriff sits upright to look Derek in the eye. “My question is Derek Hale, why do I have the feeling that he thinks he's found it and what does it have to do with _you?_ I know that he does twice the amount of grocery and only half of them ends up in our fridge and the other half? Your guess is as good as mine. I also know that when he isn’t off being an honour student, he’s playing house with your pack. And I know,” John falters, the hardness in his expression softening, “that the last time he’s been this happy, Claudia was still alive.”

He chuckles, a welcome rumble that makes Derek think of him less than threatening and more of just a father unmitigatedly devoted to his son. “Didn’t know all it took was running with wolves and for his life to get that shit-eating grin back on his face. And even though I’m not the _slightest_ bit happy about his safety constantly on the line, I gotta be honest here Hale, I’d’ve given anything to hear him sing around the house again. How’d you of all people, beat me to it?”

The werewolf swallows, his throat suddenly a bit dry. He feels like he shouldn't have heard it from Stiles’ father, but it's the confirmation he didn’t even know he was looking for. He had a text message and years of more-than-friendly exchanges with Stiles and still, he can't be sure if Stiles held half as much emotion for Derek as he did for him. He shouldn't assume things, definitely. Stay hopefully, maybe. Yeah, maybe.

“Stiles is,” he starts when he finds his words again, “the reason why the pack has stayed afloat. He's the reason why Boyd doesn't feel left out anymore and why Isaac knows how it is to be part of a family again. He's stayed with Scott throughout every stage of his life including this one and he - did you know he managed to help Jackson with his aggression? Even Erica depends on his compassion, as much as she doesn't say it. And I,” Derek halts, he _what?_ He owes his life, his pack, his newfound hope and stability to Stiles; he promises to keep him safe and put him first; he wouldn't know what to do, if Stiles had never come into his life and turned all the lights on.

John clears his throat at the lull in his response. “What I can deduce, is that you think he's the centre of your universe too.”

Derek looks up at him in surprise.

“Honestly Sir, it wouldn’t be anyone else but him.”

The Sheriff nods once, sits back, and gives a blasé wave of his hand. “Call me John.”

And so the fifth time - does not happen in his loft, but in the Stilinski house. If anyone asks, he wouldn’t admit to slipping in Stiles’ bedroom to sleep on the armchair at the corner of the room where he first became Miguel. He felt less anxious knowing he could keep an eye on Stiles, be there if he could do something. If anyone asks, he wouldn’t tell them that he saw different walls but recognised home bundled under the sheets in the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Stiles goes on a dinner date


	6. avec un

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the rating changes!! wink wonk

Graduation day was moved a week after, with Lydia somehow talking to the school board about actively participating (read: taking charge of) in the restoration of the event. So of course, it doesn’t come as a surprise when it had gone just beautifully.

The pack took way too many pictures after the ceremony, Lydia and Stiles gave the best speeches in Beacon Hills’ graduation history in the pack and their family’s very biased opinion, and the entire day tasted of triumph. 

They had all made it. 

“Son,” the Sheriff greets him outside the high school, where families, friends, and newly graduates fill the lot with boisterous noise.  “Sheriff,” Derek nods amiably and walks over to him. 

“Don’t tell Stiles but I missed half of the program, one of my deputies held me up at the station,” John explains, but Derek hears the tick in his heartbeat anyways as Melissa appears at his side. Derek knew what was good for him though, so he says absolutely nothing. 

“No worries, I got everything on tape,” he says, raising the hand holding a camera to show the two. Mrs. McCall looks at him pleasantly surprised and tells him jokingly, “Sometimes I forget that we’re not the only parents around anymore.” Sheriff laughs along with him. 

“Doesn’t the whole werewolf eye flare ruin the shots?” Melissa asks. Derek shrugs and says, “Not this one, I had it made with a heavily altered lens from a guy Deaton knows that tamps down tapeta lucida.”

The pack assembles not long after, trading hugs and taking even more pictures with each other. Derek delegates himself as the photographer, snapping shot after shot of the graduates that were half posed and the rest candid. Even though he won’t say anything to further spark the evidently growing-reputation of his as a pseudo-parent, he does feel incredibly and overwhelmingly proud of his betas and the young Alpha who still asks for pancakes and juice boxes when he’s over. 

Derek smiles widely down at one of the good shots he took, with the pack decked out in their togas and graduation leis; Erica was perched on Boyd and Jackson’s shoulders sticking her tongue out at the camera, her boyfriend grinning up at her. Isaac looked almost uncomfortably squished with one eye shut but still all smiles between the two beaming faces of Lydia and Allison, who had their diplomas raised up victoriously in the air. Stiles had jumped into Scott’s arms and the camera had  _ just  _ clicked shut before the two came tumbling down on the grass with everyone’s amused gazes following them. He also had a picture of that moment too. 

“Here son,” John calls to him as he takes the camera from the werewolf’s hands, “get in the frame.” 

Erica perks up at his arrival and shouts “Pops!” at him. He gets squeezed in the middle of the line and doesn’t really know where to put his hands, but then Scott weasels under his right arm and Erica manages to stretch the entire length of her body across the group so that they were all carrying her, plus there’s a familiar warm hand holding his from over Scott’s shoulder and --

“Everyone say pack pic!”

“ _ Pack piiiic!” _

_ Flash. _

It’s easily his favourite picture. 

(Later, Melissa takes a solo picture of him and Stiles together. And it wasn’t until he got a couple of pictures developed does he see that she took the liberty of taking only one with the werewolf looking fondly down at the human, and him with his head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and mouth open in gleeful laughter from Scott tripping over a bush. 

There was one heart-swelling moment when Derek came to wonder how it was possible that for all Stiles was human, he’s somehow always had enough magic to capture all the light in the universe inside him.)

* * *

 

  
  


The reservation at  _ Zazie  _ was at 8pm and Derek has been ready since 5. Well, mostly. 

“For the last time, Stiles wouldn’t care if you picked the red tie over the brown one with the amber tie clip, and  _ I for one  _ don’t give a damn if it matches his eyes. What is this,  _ prom?”  _ Erica whines.

“Watch your mouth, young lady.”

“Keep that up and  _ I’ll  _ be the new favourite child, Reyes,” Isaac remarks exultantly from the couch he shares with Erica, who was decidedly  _ not  _ helping him prepare for tonight’s dinner. Derek rounds at them and grumbles, “Why’d I let you two in again?”

“Three, you mean?” Erica corrects him sweetly, cocking her head in Boyd’s direction from where he sat at the breakfast bar. He looks up from his yogurt and stares at them all evenly. 

“No,” Derek says, “Boyd, I like. Boyd I’m not complaining about. Boyd doesn’t insult my choices in ties. Boyd can stay.” 

“Boyd is only here for the yogurt,” Vernon contributes to the discussion, raising his YEO cup in punctuation, “and the Netflix.”

The Alpha all but ignores this and turns to inspect the two ties in candidate again. “Maybe I should get out the silk green one.”

Erica sighs put-upon and deposits her legs on the blond’s lap. “God, what’s the point when all your better-half will want to do is tear your suit and tie off upon sight, anyways.” 

Isaac immediately wrinkles his nose at her. “ _ Dude,  _ don’t talk about my parents like that.” He pushes her heels away from him. “Plus they’ve obviously got more class than what your dirty, corrupt mind is implying.” Erica gives an offended scoff and points an accusing finger at him. 

“Stop trying to act like a good shot, Lahey, I  _ know _ what you’re doing. You’re already Stiles’ favourite, you  _ absolute suck-up _ , you can’t take Derek from me too!”

“There can only be  _ one  _ blond star kid in this family.” 

Boyd chimes in with a thoughtful, “I think it’s the dimples.” 

Derek rubs his temples. He just wants to know what damn tie he should wear, was that  _ too _ much to ask?

* * *

 

So, he sort of buys a rose. He considers buying a whole flower arrangement but figured it’d be difficult to lug around after the date -  _ dinner.  _ Dinner date thing. Also, the brown tie was a  _ terrible  _ decision. 

Right now, he gets the jitters. He gets the whole nine yards of unsteady pulse jack-rabitting like a faucet tap on crack, the sweaty palms, and the overactive imagination of how everything could go absolutely wrong tonight. It was ridiculous, it wasn’t like he was being set up for a blind date, it’s  _ Stiles  _ he knows will be coming through the doors and dining with him tonight. And yet -

“Can I start you off with something, Sir?” a waitress asks him. He’s a little early, arriving at fifteen minutes before eight o’ clock, and Stiles has never been a punctual person in the first place. Erica had told him to unclench five different times and even  _ Boyd  _ suggested the greatest idea of the night: to stop worrying so much.  He knows this, he’s always known this, but he just...doesn’t want to take any chances on not doing everything perfectly.

“A glass of merlot will do, thank you,” he tells the server, declining the menu proffered to him. She nods her acquiescence before folding back the leather-bound menu and turning around. 

What follows is the split second of wired agitation between the point of his periphery securing the restaurant front and the surrounding people, that gets doubled, quadrupled, until it stutters to one of the slowest stops of his life when the waitress pivots on her heel, and Stiles seemingly peels out from her retreating form. 

Derek shoots up from his seat, earning him curious side-eyes that he doesn't feel the slightest bit embarrassed about when the thundering flutter in his gut doesn't leave room for it to spoil the excitement in his chest. Stiles brightens up at the sight of him - he realises the human always has - and gives a laugh that slips into Derek's ear like a classical symphony. 

He tamps down the overwhelming feeling of maudlin bubbling over well enough to say, “Hi. You look good.” 

Stiles grins at him. “I did mention I only wear my good clothes on special occasions.” 

“And this is one?” Derek smirks fondly at the memory. 

“No nasty goblin bites this time but yeah, I guess you can say this is pretty special. Is that a rose?” Stiles gestures to the red flower the werewolf has clutched in his palm. Derek nearly forgets the rose (there’s something to be said, about lovelier things than the quintessential rose to focus on) and hands it over quickly, the young man making a noise that sounds a bit like a laugh and a bit like a disbelieving snort. 

“See, Lydia was totally wrong,” he says as he twirls the stem in his hands. “Being an old married couple doesn’t mean romance is dead! Hey, mind pushing my chair in for me so I can check that off my bucket list?” Derek rolls his eyes at him but he does it anyways. 

Their waitress come back to take their orders and after, the conversation isn’t exactly  _ stilted _ but Derek stares at Stiles and he stares back. “Uh, so, congratulations on graduating with honours,” he starts. 

“Thanks!” Stiles lights up. “My speech was bomb man, I’m gonna make this Liam kid tell me next year if any other graduating batches can top that. Finally found an opportunity to use the word  _ ‘lucubration _ ’ which sounds a lot like lubrication and that’s pretty much why I used it. Also,  _ ultracrepidarian. _ Even Harris didn’t know what it meant and it was probably why I got away with furtively insulting the American educational system. Total win if you ask me.”

“Yeah I know,” Derek nods along, “I got it all on tape. You can view it tomorrow if you want.”

“Ooh, how ‘bout later when we’re at home?” Stiles suggests. Something sweet stabs at his heart. 

“Of course, whenever you want.”

Dinner gets served and they talk more. At one point it dawns on him that it had started to feel more like any other pack dinners and private meals they’ve had. Perhaps they’ve had more dates than they’ve realised, actually. Maybe the standing status of this being a formal date made it feel considerably daunting  at the start, but this part where the evening simmers down to is familiar, with Stiles periodically stealing food from his plate and pouring drinks for the both of them without him having to ask. He tells him about his application process for photography in the community college, and Stiles talks endlessly about all the application letters he’s received and is having trouble choosing between. 

Their domesticity becomes all the more evident when they open a conversation about making arrangements for the pack once everyone starts moving to their respective colleges. 

“Obviously I’m getting custody of Isaac, although I wouldn’t dream of skimping out on the other furry kids, either. Can we have shared guardianship?” There’s a joking lilt to Stiles’ tone but a note of trepidation catches on his voice, like he really was considering separation to be what follows once college comes and bulldozes the tight-knit pack they’ve become. 

“This isn’t a divorce, idiot,” Derek says after flagging down a waiter for the bill. Stiles makes a wounded noise. “If you for a second think we’re not even the  _ least bit  _ werewolf married, I’m getting us a counselor. I won’t be denied of my rights in a supernatural civil partnership, Hale.”

The Alpha chuckles and humors him. “Well even if that was the case, I wouldn’t exactly agree with the idea of immediate dissolvement of unity because of something like, going to separate colleges. Would you really give up on the kids and I that easily?”

Stiles looks affronted at him and says with indignance, “I’m the glue that holds this family together and you know it!”

The bill gets automatically handed to Derek which earns the waiter a narrowed gaze from his date. “Must have married you for a reason then,” he appeases solemnly. 

“Is it because I’m pretty?” Stiles jests with a coquettish bat of his dark eyelashes, and Derek’s responding laugh almost makes him choke on the merlot. 

Isaac told him it wasn’t supposed to be as difficult as he was making it out to be in his head a few hours ago, and he was right. Because it has always been simple: Stiles  _ was _ pretty, and Derek was  _ pretty  _ fucking smitten. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “you’re pretty great.” 

Stiles’ grin was  _ incandescent.  _

* * *

 

_ “...and so that’s the story: boy meets world, and he meets so much more than that in between... To all my peers whom I victoriously graduate with today, it is with genuine well wishes that I root for your happiness and success. The first will always come before the latter, I hope we all remember that. And with pride, I present to everyone on this 13th of June, the graduating class of 2013.”  _

“Look at me go!” Stiles cheers from the couch. They had retired to the loft where Derek, as promised, hooked up his camera to the TV and played his clips from the graduation ceremony. They’d even changed to shirts and an identical pair of striped pyjamas. Even the usual inhabitants of the loft had decided to stay at the mostly rebuilt house in the preserve to give the two privacy. 

The camera turns shaky, probably from the applause Derek chased while filming at the time, and then blacks out altogether. The remote falls on the ground and accidentally skips to the third video queued up in the memory card: the pre-graduation dinner they hosted for the pack after the whole warlock-shapeshifter incident. Because according to Stiles, the show must go on. 

It opens with Erica’s face looking close into the opposite end of the viewfinder and asking someone in the background - probably Boyd -  _ is this thing on?  _ She then grins and flips the lens to show the dining table, where Boyd was setting cutlery around. He waves a fork at the camera and tells Erica,  _ “Tell Isaac to help me get out the glasses.”  _ She responds with an affirmative and shuffles around the loft, turning a corner, and sticking the camera into the bathroom where Isaac squawks at her intrusion. 

_ “The fuck, Erica!”  _ The blond throws a square of floss at her. A wicked laugh is heard behind the camera at the plastic missing its target entirely. 

_ “Bring out glasses! If you don’t stop flossing I’m telling Stiles you’re no help.”  _

Isaac rolls his eyes at her.  _ “I helped earlier, it’s your turn.” _

_ “I’m still the favourite so I can get away with everything,”  _ she sing-songs. Isaac growls at her and throws a comb, jostling the camera.  _ “Love you too, bro!”  _

_ “Erica!”  _ A disembodied voice calls. The screen turns and travels back to the corner, making a line towards the living room, where Derek’s face comes into view holding up a pair of rumpled yellow socks.  _ “Your laundry?” _

A hand shoots out to grab it. Derek crosses his arms and looks disapprovingly above the frame.

_ “Sorry, pops. Say hi to the camera!”  _

The Alpha shifts his eyes to the lens and gives an unimpressed wave of his hand. Erica turns it back to her face and she gives a wide grin as she pretends to poke Derek’s chin from that perspective. He huffs a laugh and brushes her head with a large hand as he walks past.

_ “T minus fifty minutes before graduation dinner!”  _ Erica declares loudly.  _ “Time to meet the chefs.”  _ They get switched around again as she walks to the kitchen where Stiles and Jackson come into view, backs turned. 

_ “Batman!”  _ The lens gets zoomed to the side of Stiles’ face that takes him by surprise. He turns his head and looks at the side to regard Erica, then the centre with a grin. 

_ “Whacha got there, Catwoman?”  _ He asks but goes back to stirring the pot on the induction stove. 

“The beef stew that night was a complete hit, by the way.” Stiles in current time interjects. 

_ “Just documenting things. Say hi in Polish,  _ matka!” 

The brunet looks aghast at her but laughs anyways. “ _ I  _ know  _ you didn’t google translate that one, Reyes.”  _ The camera whirls around to face her and she says to it,  _ “I did.”  _ It turns back to Stiles who glowers witheringly.

_ “That’s  _ tata  _ for you, rebel  _ księżniczka,” he says firmly, waving a wooden spoon. He gets ignored by means of her switching the take on Jackson chopping up spuds. 

_ “Here we see the domesticated kanima preparing potato salad,”  _ Erica narrates. Jackson flips her off without even deigning to look over his shoulder.  _ “It is also important to note that we have taught him profane gestures as his latest trick!” _

_ “Sod off or I will put onion in your eye,”  _ He says flatly. 

_ “No monkey business in my kitchen!”  _ Stiles cries from his station. The camera faces back to him.  _ “What, were you raised by wolves?”  _

_ “By you, matka,”  _ Erica whisper only gets picked up by Jackson and the device

_ “Erica called you the m-word again!”  _ Jackson alerts the human. Stiles turns around with a bowl of fresh salad in hand and drops a kiss to her forehead, his chin filling the lens view.  _ “Make yourself useful. Jackson, don’t be such a tattle-tale.”  _

Erica’s resounding cackle is followed by Jackson’s protests of offence. The frame makes tremulous work of navigating out the kitchen to the door and catches Allison’s arrival with Scott in tow on film. 

_ “Ooh camera!”  _ Scott bounds over to stick his face into the lens that promptly falls from its height and cuts to black.

 

Silence fills the room until Derek makes a move to reach the remote but Stiles brushes him back to settle, eyes still trained on the TV as it loads the next video that was skipped earlier.

It restarts and shows Erica’s face again, now sitting down on the couch with various pack members walking back behind her.  _ “So, that’s my family,”  _ she says as Lydia breezes over and blows a kiss to the camera as she passes.  _ “And they’re odd, but one day I’m gonna show this to like, future kids and all or for intervention purposes the next time people get into a fight and need to be reminded what  _ ohana  _ means.” _

_ “Erica there’s ice cream!”  _

She looks up and grins.  _ “Coming, pops, don’t let Allison get all the mango!”  _

The screen reloads and this time the time stamp says  _ April 17 _ , the day the pack went to celebrate Isaac’s birthday, who was presumably holding the camera by the scarf that blew from under the frame. 

It’s a lot steadier than Erica’s handling and merely shows a bunch of bright lights and contraptions at the carnival they went to. He points the camera at Stiles who was walking beside him, and then at Derek who was in stride handing a brochure of the carnival to Scott.

It gets cut short and the next video plays, of the dinner they had in a restaurant before taking a walk outside the grounds. It’s of a lit birthday cake and hands clapping around the periphery. The happy birthday song ends and as the candle gets blown out, it shows the grinning faces of the pack before it turns off again. 

They watch more videos that the pack has taken, more birthdays and occasions like Thanksgiving and Christmas that was spent with everyone and in different places. There’s also one of Scott turning the video on accidentally, saying  _ oops _ , and turning it back off. It’s all in reverse, and it’s on the eighth video that Stiles picks up the remote to pause the TV and says, 

“When did you become my life?” 

The werewolf shrugs with his chest feeling too full, and he answers, “Probably around the time I realised you were mine, too. This, the whole pack -- you.” 

Stiles laughs weakly, “I mean, I know I talk a lot about being domestic and all with you and the betas, and hell, Erica calls me  _ mom  _ just to be obnoxious. But -” 

“But Isaac sees a parent when he looks at you, I think they all do,” Derek admits without a hint of diffidence. 

“Yeah?” There’s a mirthful look in the young man’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he confirms. He’d take time to tell Stiles what he really is on a different day, have him hear how vital he truly is and that they wouldn't be a pack without him, much less a family like they are now. But tonight feels like a summation of the past few years coming to solidity. It doesn't leave room for further delay. 

“And how about you,” Stiles asks him quietly, “what do you see?” 

Derek tries to find words that encompasses the response that wants to tumble from his lips, but finding his way from the other end of the couch to press them against Stiles’ instead is a better way of showing it. 

The young man’s whole body sighs upon contact like it was holding in more than a breath, an assumption he knows the rest of the world rode on: that Stiles was Derek’s and Derek was Stiles’. When the werewolf takes a tentative swipe of his tongue against the wet seam of Stiles’ lips, something between them simply  _ gives in. _

They tumble back down, Derek pressing Stiles between the cushion and the length of his body, kissing like they were unlearning how it is to not be this close, this  _ intimate  _ with each other. Stiles’ mouth is hot and perfect and wet and he tastes like bittersweet dessert chocolate and desire. 

The heady scent of it intoxicates the wolf more in a way that takes root in the pull of his gut, curling around his heart that feels much too big for his chest. Stiles makes restless, breathy sounds that makes Derek’s body  _ hum  _ like a live-wire. The boy has his hands anchoring themselves on the meat of Derek’s shoulders while he can't help but touch, but feel, but savour the expanse of the body under him. 

Stiles is so responsive, so willing to give and lean into his touches. He lets the Alpha bunch his shirt up and off, and there's an avalanche of throw pillows that ends up on the floor. Derek decides he likes him best like this. He loves him best on most days, but this instance he will keep to memory for safekeeping.

The constellation of moles on Stiles’ pale, flushed skin reminds him of the sky and the moon and the names of all the stars he was once taught to connect. He can't remember any of them now of course, when the only name he knows is Stiles Stilinski and the only connection he cares about is their limbs tangling together. 

_ “Off, _ ” Stiles grumbles against his lips, hooking an entire arm under Derek’s shirt in an effort to remove it. He stands on his knees to pull it off in a single movement, and then they're both half naked and chest-to-chest. 

“Bedroom?” Derek suggests once Stiles started sucking on the vulnerable spot at his throat where his pulse beats so, so fast. They make quick work of making their way to the bedroom that smells more like them and looks more like theirs than it does a bachelor’s. The back of Stiles’ knees hit the bed and he's got the fabric of Derek’s pyjamas in a grasp that follows down along with him. 

With less clothing in between them, each contact feels like it leaves a blazing trail. There’s a burning in his chest that feels safe and untouched, it makes him feel whole unlike any other physical intimacy he’s engaged with in the past years. 

Derek learns that while he likes feeling every part of Stiles covered, he especially adores it when they're touching bare. His skin is supple, and it looks soft enough to bruise easy. He might already see red outlines on the sides of Stiles’ hips that look exactly like the shape of his hand. 

They're both unbearably hard in their boxer-briefs, evidenced by the new line in Stiles’ body that strains against Derek’s thigh when he drops kisses from the top of the human’s head to the underside of his navel like worship. “Is this okay?” Derek rasps out,peeling down Stiles’ bottoms making his throat dry at the thought of where this night was leading to. 

_ “Yes, _ ” Stiles hisses when he feels Derek’s hot breath ghost over the most sensitive part of him. It was all the consent the werewolf needed to mouth at him through the barrier of his underwear, making a sloppy, wet spread that joins the patch of pre-come already sunk in the fabric. The human keens and whines so goddamn deliciously,  _ “Derek, please!”  _

In one fluid motion he peels off the underwear to pool on the floor of the bedroom, taking the base of Stiles’ erection and doing a twisting motion around it that he likes to do to himself. A gasp is pulled from Stiles’ thoroughly debauched mouth and Derek follows the sound with his free hand to cup Stiles’ face, hooking a thumb on the corner of his mouth that immediately gets sucked in the heat of it. 

Derek nudges Stiles’ legs farther apart to get close enough and give an experimental lick on the head of his cock. His hips buck up and the werewolf takes it as his cue to take the length into his own mouth, getting the hang of sucking off another person, something he's usually on the receiving end of. But he wants to make this good for Stiles, he wants to make everything good for him, always. 

He gets into a rhythm of bobbing up and down, takes note of what makes Stiles grip the sheets tighter or get him to moan the loudest. His own unattended cock is heavy inside his underwear so clearly, he's just as into giving head as he is getting it. That or the arousal was specific to a certain person. 

When his hand dips down to fondle Stiles’ balls, he feels it tighten and then Stiles says hurriedly, “Der -  _ fuck _ -I’m about to come, get  _ up _ here.” 

He pops off and meets Stiles up in a heated kiss that was clumsy but bone-achingly good. He feels a hand pull down his boxer-briefs low enough that his cock springs free, already glistening with pre-come. Stiles breaks off the kiss to look at it and groans, “You are  _ so _ going to figure out how to get  _ all  _ of that in me next time.” Derek shows his agreement through another kiss. 

Stiles fumbles on the bedside table for a bottle of lube, and eventually gets both his hands between them as he starts stroking them both. The first moan feels like it was punched out of Derek, surprised at how  _ good  _ it felt to have Stiles’ hand getting him off. He's thought a lot about this, fantasized and rubbed one out to the imagination that he’s almost jealous of himself since it was all happening to him right now. 

Grunts and sighs fill the air accompanied by the slippery slide of hands and it sounds so filthy, it damn may well be the best thing Derek’s ever heard. He gets an idea he picked up on earlier, and then brings his thumb back into Stiles’ open, panting mouth. Just like last time it gets pulled in and thoroughly massaged by the wet muscle of his tongue. 

He pulls it out and lets his hand  wander to Stiles backside, pulls apart his cheeks with two more fingers and finds the puckered fold of skin there making the young man whimper audibly. When Derek circles the hole and applies just the right amount of pressure, Stiles’ orgasm rocks him forward. He gasps and makes choked-off cries that he muffles by clamping his teeth on the werewolf's clavicle, and this sends him over the edge too. 

Stiles strokes him until he finishes, and they both topple down in a sweaty heap on the bed that smells entirely like sex. 

Derek catches all the breath that was taken from him first, then gets up to fetch a wash cloth before any come could start drying up. Stiles looked about the most boneless he’s ever been, so the werewolf wipes them both clean. With the cloth discarded to the side, he flops back down to bed and faces a heavy-lidded Stiles, who presses a chaste kiss on his lips that warms him to his toes  all over again.

“Didn't exactly think this would be how you’d answer my question, but I’m glad it was,” the young man tells him. He inches towards Derek until he’s got a head pillowed on the werewolf’s bicep, nose touching the bridge of his Adam’s apple. The human opens his mouth to say, “This is exactly how I see you, too,” before going out like a light. 

  
Derek looks at his resting face and revels in the feel of Stiles’ naked body against his, so perfectly arranged to fit the crevices of his person. There’s a sated feeling rumbling inside of him and the sense of rightness - of  _ wonderment _ \- casting a heavy spell over their tired, pliant bodies. Witnessing them both like this, Derek finally finds an answer and wonders if even for a second, Stiles saw forever in it, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aand that's a wrap! it felt right to end there, but if anyone else wants more hale-mccall pack family fun i might be writing a few drabbles centreing around the fam if that's something you guys would want to read as an accompaniment work! 
> 
> Polish translations (courtesy of Quora native Polish forums):
> 
> matka - mother (formal; apparently not something your mum would appreciate being called in conversation which can come across as rude, hence Stiles' reaction. Erica doesn't know any better, forgive her)  
> księżniczka - princess
> 
> and as always, leave some love or whatever you wish on the comments section if you feel like it, i love hearing from you guys! come say hi on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/mariabaeronica)

**Author's Note:**

> So how was it? Tell me what you think, babycakes! Comments give me life, leave a little love (or something of that ilk) for ya girl and come say hi on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/mariabaeronica)
> 
> Next one will be up before you know it, I suggest bookmarking!


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